Miss Match (13 page)

Bob, the soon-to-be ex-fiance, is jabbering on as Richard and Julia
are swept up in the moment. The phone rings just as Richard gets close
enough to kiss her.

You would think he is about to kiss me by the way I react. "Arrg!" I
yell, slam the snowman mug down on the coffee table, and jerk up the
extension beside me on the couch.

It is against proper etiquette to interrupt the hero kissing the heroine.
Movie or not.

"Yes?" I answer it. The snowman on my mug flies for cover from the
heat in my voice.

"Uh, Laur?"

"Uh, Brandon?"

"Are you okay?"

"Are you deaf?"

Apparently, he does not know how to respond to that one because
he avoids an answer by employing the ask-another-question tactic.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching Richard and Julia kiss."

He knows me too well. He doesn't even question that statement.

"Can I come over?"

Huh. Brave boy.

"Only if you let me finish watching them."

"Okay. Bye."

I rewind until Julia is walking down the aisle toward Richard in
her skirt and denim jacket again.

Richard stares at her.

She stares at him.

He leans forward ...

Ding Bong!

"ARRG!"

"Hey, Laur."

"Were you outside when you called?"

He doesn't even a take step back from the wrath of the Wicked
Witch of the West. Just saunters in like he owns the place, sits in the
chair beside mine, and frowns at the movie.

"Yup "

"Shut up," I say in no uncertain terms. "Do not speak, do not
mutter, do not breathe, don't even think."

Once again, I rewind and press the play button. Once again, Julia
walks down the aisle. Once again, he stares, she stares, and he leans
forward.

They kiss.

I smile.

Brandon gags.

"This isn't healthy." He snatches the remote and pauses the emotion onscreen.

But not offscreen.

"Brandon!" I scream.

"Nutsy." He tosses the remote in the air, catches it, and blows across
the top as if it is a gun and he is Clint Eastwood. Then he hits the eject
button and Runaway Bride pops out of the DVD player.

"You said I could finish watching this!" I jump up.

"I changed my mind," he says easily. "Let's go for a walk."

I am dubious. "A walk."

"Yes, a walk. As in, get your coat, Laurie."

"I don't want to walk." If being difficult were an Olympic sport, I
would be on the medal stand at this moment.

"Well, you're going to." He eyes the mug with the hidden snowman.
"How many cups have you had so far?"

"One."

"Liar."

"Five." I blink innocently at him. "It could be hot chocolate, for all
you know."

"For all I know? Nutsy, it was I who went with you in fourth grade
to talk to Principal Carlson about putting the instant cappuccino maker
in the lunchroom. Trust me. I know it's hard caffeine and nothing but in
that cup." He shakes his finger at me throughout this little speech.

I stick my tongue out at him. "It was not fourth grade."

"Fine. Sixth. Get your coat."

I do what he asks, not because I want to but because if I don't, we'll
be having this conversation all night, and I'm tired.

"It's dark outside," I announce.

"Really? Oh my gosh! What ever shall we do?" he yells in fake
abandon.

I pull one sleeve of my coat on. "There's a good chance of snow."

"Wear gloves."

Two sleeves on. "Dad will say I'll catch my death."

"Your dad is at the church."

I zip up the coat until it is squashing against my thyroid. "If I get sick
and die, it's your fault."

"Fine. I'll arrange your funeral. Let's go."

He opens the front door, and the icy cold Colorado air has both the
scent of snow and of someone's fireplace.

I inhale hard and suddenly I'm not mad anymore. Take warning:
Frosty air can do that to you.

Or maybe it's the five cups of peppermint mocha.

Either way, the Wicked Witch moved north and became the
Good Witch.

Brandon inhales and exhales hard, his breath standing out against
the frosty air. "Cold winter nights will do you good every time."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"I don't care."

We wander in the direction of the little park a few blocks away from
my house. Brandon is quiet most of the way.

Then he suddenly bursts.

"What do you think about God's sovereignty?"

I look at him, blinking, a tad weirded out that he and I are both
thinking about the same thing. "What do you mean?"

He twists his hand around as if the words are floating in the air. "Do
you think God planned everything beforehand? Or do you think we
have some choice?"

"As in, if I go to college it's because God planned it, not because I
chose it?"

"Right." His voice carries a sense of relief. "What do you think?"

It is my turn to use the ask-another-question ploy. "What do
you think?"

He quiets again. Shoves his hands in his pockets. Bites his lip. "I
don't know. I'm confused."

I've never known Brandon to be confused about anything. Brandon
is my conscience. My decision maker. Ever since I can remember, he's
had an exact plan for his entire life.

Which is probably why these words scare me a little.

"Maybe you should, you know, talk to Nick or something," I say,
fidgeting. "Or Laney." Laney seems to understand it. Much more than
the snippets I'm mulling over.

"I'm going to. I'm meeting Nick tomorrow for coffee. I just wanted
to use you as a sounding board before I went."

It isn't the first time I've been his sounding board.

"You mean like Romans 9 kind of stuff, right?" I ask.

He looks at me. "Sovereignty isn't just in Romans 9. It's throughout
the Bible."

"Yeah, I know."

"So you never told me what you think."

"I don't know, Brandon. It's ... it's kind of a hard concept." I pause. "If
God's in complete control, why do bad things happen to good people?"

"Laur, if Romans 3:23 is correct, there are no good people."

I concede. "True."

There is a long silence. I push my gloved hands into my coat pockets. I look up at the moon, and I suddenly feel very, very small and
insignificant.

It is not a nice feeling.

I shrink closer to Brandon, which makes me feel even smaller. I
can see my breath and I'm smelling someone's fire, but it doesn't bring
any comfort.

Something deep in my gut is still amiss.

If I have the power to change something, doesn't that take power
away from God? And in Ephesians 1:19, Paul said something about God's
incomparably great power.

"Hey, Brandon?"

"Hmm?"

My thoughts are jumbled. "For God to be God, wouldn't He have
to be sovereign?"

"My thoughts exactly, Laur."

Silence again. We reach the park.

"So what else did you want to talk about?" I ask, needing to change
the subject.

He shrugs.

"Do you think Richard and Julia will get together in the end?"

He gives me a look that makes me wish for a camera. I giggle.

"You need a life, Laurie."

I spread out my hands. "I have a nice life."

"Because I'm in it."

"Oh, you're a funny boy. I think I'll keep you around as my
court jester.

He frowns. "Do I have to wear those little shoes with bells on them?"

"Why not?"

"Sneaking up on you will be harder."

"Then I'll live longer."

He knuckles my head, and after we get home, we both have a peppermint mocha. I cave in and we watch Rocky.

It is just like we are fourteen again.

But my gut continues to stay off-centered.

Tuesday morning I walk into work, and Tina Braxton and Kyle Medfield
are there.

Perfect, radiant, and two-dimensional.

They smile down from their place of honor on the main wall across
from the receptionist desk.

I moan.

"Morning, Laurie."

"Hey, Hannah."

She frowns at me. "You look blue."

"I'm wearing red."

"Wearing red makes you blue?"

"No. What are they doing here? I don't remember another session for
them." I hook my thumb toward the picture.

"Like it, huh?" Hannah rolls her eyes. "I know, I know. It's a great
pick-me-up during the day. I can sit here and think, `Gosh, I didn't put
on any makeup this morning; I must look awful.' And then I get to
see that."

Tina's eyes sparkle just so as she looks at me, and I know the portrait
somehow embodies the spirit of that evil queen on Snow White.

Who is the fairest of them all?

"You, Tina," I say, bowing from the waist, arms outstretched.

"Uh, Laurie?"

I frown. Either Hannah's voice is significantly lower since last I saw
her, or we have a stranger in our midst.

I whirl.

Ryan Palmer stands there with the expression of someone who
has just seen a smoked salmon stand up and sing "The Star-Spangled
Banner."

There I go with those fishing analogies again.

"Ryan ... hi," I stutter. "How are you?"

"Were you really ... ?" He stares at me another second, and I guess
he recalls the Oreo fiasco because he doesn't finish his thought.

"Is Ruby here?" he asks.

I shrug. "I don't know. I just got here myself."

"She's here," Hannah says. "Studio Four."

"Thanks." Ryan gives me one last look and walks down the hall.
After he disappears in the studio, Hannah dissolves.

"That was hysterical!" she screams, gasping for breath between the
extremely overdramatic gales of laughter.

"Good grief, Hannah, it wasn't that funny."

"He looked at you like ... like. .

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up."

She grins at me instead. Her blue eyes are spotlighted by the powder
blue sweater she wears, and though I can't see her legs behind the desk,
I'm fairly certain she's wearing jeans again. Her hair bounces around her
shoulders in reckless waves.

Forget Tina.

How is it I end up working with the fairest of them all?

Ryan and Ruby come out of Studio Four, Ruby's arm casually around
her brother's waist, his around her shoulders.

"Are you coming tomorrow night?" Ruby asks Ryan.

He sends me a sidelong look. "I think so. I'm supposed to guard the
chocolate."

I cross my arms over my chest. Hmph. Well, there are ways to get
around guards.

"Got a pistol?" Hannah asks.

"No, but I'm fairly good at darts," he says. "Think those will work?"

Rats. Now it's an armed guard. Still plausible. Look what happens
in those all-too-realistic movies like Disney's Robin Hood. Three armed
guards, a locked gate, and a talking snake. And Robin still manages to get all the gold, all the captives, and his life. Not to mention the girl. And
to stray from the subject, exactly how long did Maid Marian's ring last?
Flowers don't make good engagement rings.

Anyway, chocolate will be a cinch after all that.

"Bring the darts," Hannah instructs. "Ever seen any Old West
movies?"

Ryan bursts. "Are you kidding? John Wayne is my favorite actor."

Obviously, we'll need some time to work with Ryan on his choice
of actors.

"Remember the strongboxes?" Hannah goes on.

"Yep"

"Bring at least one. You can lock up the chocolate and then stand
guard with the darts."

Ryan laughs.

Suddenly, a dart hits me square in the forehead.

Cupid is at work, apparently, and letting me know.

Hannah.

Ryan.

Already they have something in common-Old West movies, bless
their future children's hearts.

Ryan will be easy. Hannah, beautiful and intelligent, can steal the
heart of a cold-blooded shark.

Mental note: Talk to Dad. Tell him not to mention the fishing trip again
until a week before. This is getting ridiculous.

Hannah might be harder. But hanging around a bunch of Christians
is apparently rubbing off on her. The salvation issue may not be a problem soon. I'm hopeful, anyway.

But if looks mean anything to her ...

Just keep him smiling. He might be plain to look at, but when he
smiles, his whole face lights up. Pretty cute. Like watching a little fourth grader's expression when he climbs to the top of the monkey bars for the
first time.

Plus, he has nice teeth. And pretty eyelashes.

This can work.

"So, Ryan," I butt in, "what are you doing for lunch today?"

He blinks a few times. "Probably eating."

"Want to join us? Brandon owes us lunch out, and you're officially
invited."

"Well..."

"You aren't seriously going to turn down free food," I lecture. "At
Vizzini's? Come on, Ryan. The future reputation of bachelors everywhere
is resting on your shoulders."

He smiles. Good. Keep smiling. "Uh, sure, I'll go. I guess."

I am ecstatic. "Great! Twelve thirty work?"